Socrates
by Joodiff
Summary: Set whenever you like in S8. Boyd and Grace share a sad Sunday morning. Sort of fluff, but, er, not. You'll see. Difficult to categorise, sorry. Complete. Enjoy!


**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing.

**A/N:** _This disgustingly indulgent... thing... was_  
><em>requested by my long-suffering Beta, Mossie.<em>  
><em>Love it or hate it, blame her. ;) <em>

* * *

><p><strong>Socrates<strong>

by Joodiff

* * *

><p>He came into her life totally by accident. Unwanted and unexpected, and she, of course, despite all her vociferous complaints, was quite simply too soft-hearted to turn him away. A scruffy little scrap of fur with wide, startled yellow eyes, peering out from under Peter Boyd's long, heavy coat. Cold and bedraggled – the absolute epitome of a waif and stray. Tiny teeth, tiny claws and a ridiculously over-sized growl. To this day, office legend still has it that when Boyd first seized the little orphan by the scruff of its scrawny neck in the squalid Bermondsey squat being thoroughly searched by the officers of the CCU, it sank its tiny needle teeth firmly into his wrist. And maybe it was that one bristling act of defiance that instantly saved it from a very uncertain future.<p>

"For God's sake, Boyd," she'd said irritably. "I don't want a bloody cat…"

His response had been a superbly nonchalant, "It's a kitten, Grace, not a cat."

"A kitten that will grow into a cat. No. Absolutely not."

Inevitably, she'd taken it home, the dishevelled little tabby kitten. Not before it had been extensively cooed over by Mel and gravely pronounced officially male by Frankie.

And now here she is, six years later, sobbing and utterly heart-broken. Socrates – stupid name for a cat – has chased his last bird and leered at his very last mouse. Big as he is now, all Grace can see as she looks at him is the tiny, woebegone creature that was marched into her office and summarily dumped on her desk all those years ago.

Deep in misery, it takes her a moment to realise that someone is knocking repeatedly on her front door. She knows who her visitor is immediately. She summoned him herself, despite it being so early on a crisp Sunday morning. And to his eternal credit he didn't grumble or complain, just told her that he was on his way. Feeling every single year of her age and more, Grace gets to her feet and goes out into her hall. When she pulls the front door open, there he is, looking down at her with an odd, unreadable expression on his face. Jeans, casual jacket and shirt. Weekend uniform. He hasn't wasted time shaving, either, and something about the implied compassion of that stupidly insignificant thing makes her start to cry again.

Day after day, week after week, year after year they see the very worst things human beings are capable of. Both of them have seen untold horrors, appalling acts of violence and cruelty, and it is this – the accidental death of an animal – that proves beyond any doubt that neither of them have been irredeemably brutalised by the terrible things they have seen, because when she cries he simply embraces her silently. This is an instinctive, human thing; a thing not bound by the constraints of professionalism or propriety. She puts her head on his chest and she sobs; he holds onto her with stubborn calm, the strength of his grip speaking of kinship as much as reassurance.

This, they would never do for the endless numbers of tragic victims whose details pass over their respective desks. Not even when something resonates powerfully enough to cause weeks of sleepless nights.

Boyd doesn't release her, she pulls away. Devastated and embarrassed. She says, "I'm sorry."

He says, "It's all right."

Grace takes him into the living room where Socrates lies in state, his yellow eyes firmly closed, and for a moment they both look at the feline corpse without exchanging a single word. Blood on his whiskers, one back leg stretched out at an unnatural angle. Otherwise, he might just be sleeping.

Grace says, "He was already dead when I came down."

Boyd crouches down, reaches out a tentative hand. She knows he will feel the chill beneath the thick, stripy fur. Predictably gruff, he says, "Hit by a car."

She nods, not trusting herself to speak. The lump in her throat is real and painful.

They have seen terrible things. People killed in vile, unspeakable ways. Victims traumatised beyond anything any human should have to bear. Men, women and children. Tortured. Mutilated. Raped. Murdered.

He looks round at her, dark eyes unfathomable. "What do you want me to do with him? I can take him or…"

"Will you bury him for me?" Grace asks, her voice so quiet she thinks he will have to strain to hear her. "In the back garden…?"

He sounds dismissive as he says, "Yeah, of course."

She knows he's not. Dismissive. Tough as he is, he's as soft-hearted as she is in his own way. Maybe more so. He's the one who regularly lets his heart rule his head, not her. He's the one who can't control his temper when faced with cruelty and injustice. He stands up, takes off his jacket. She leads him to the kitchen, unlocks the back door and takes him out into the garden. Church bells are ringing in the distance. Someone somewhere nearby is mowing their lawn. Sunday morning on the fringes of the metropolis.

It's maudlin, but Grace doesn't care. She thinks Socrates should lie forever beneath the tree he learned to climb as a kitten. Boyd doesn't argue, just fetches a spade from the small shed indicated and starts to dig. Even though the ground is hard, it won't take him long to excavate the small grave. Grace leaves him to it, returns to the house. She doesn't want the dirt to mat the luxurious fur. A stupid, superstitious thing. She knows more than she ever wanted to know about the mechanics of decomposition, knows wrapping the little body in an old towel is pure folly. But she does it anyway, and places Socrates gently beside the back door, the tears brimming again.

It is not folly, not really. None of it. It's humanity. Proof that they have not yet become Nietzsche's monsters, either of them, despite looking into the abyss every single working day. This is not about the insignificant death of a pet cat; this is about compassion and strength of character. This is about being strong enough to continue to care instead of allowing themselves to become numb and insensible in the face of unrelenting madness and horror. This is about the nobility of the human spirit, the integrity required to do what they do without becoming hardened to the pain and suffering of the very people they are supposed to serve.

It is Boyd who carries Socrates out into the sunshine. A grim-faced pallbearer who understands far too much about the nature of death and grief. It is Grace who cries as he silently backfills the grave. Neither of them are sentimental enough for a word or a prayer, but when it is done they are both quiet for a few moments. Neither tells the other what is in their thoughts, but she doubts he is thinking about Socrates. The look in his eyes is too old and too empty for that. He is thinking about death, but not the death of a cat.

Impulsively, she puts a hand on his arm and squeezes slightly. "Thank you."

Boyd shrugs wordlessly. He won't tell her what he's thinking, she knows that, and she won't ask.

She precedes him back into the house and they go through the ritual of cups of tea and strained conversation. The years have rolled past, bringing them to this day. The kitten became a cat, and died. The boy became a man, and died. There are no parallels, just quirks of time and circumstance. Pet cat, lost son. Both committed to the ground. Stupid, spurious thoughts.

Boyd says, "Will you get another one?"

She shakes her head. "No."

"Probably for the best."

Inane words. From both of them.

She says, "I'm sorry I disturbed your Sunday morning…"

He shrugs again. "Nothing to disturb, Grace. You saved me from having to choose between washing the car or tidying the kitchen."

"Now you've completely shattered my illusions, Boyd."

"Sorry."

She looks at him and he looks back at her. The silence is contemplative.

For a moment Boyd rubs a hand over the stubble and the bristly goatee beard and then he says, "I don't suppose you fancy a pub lunch somewhere?"

The invitation is studiously casual. It's her turn to shrug. "All right."

It is not Socrates, but the cat from next door who lounges lazily in the sun watching indolently as they get into Boyd's car and drive off.

Maybe that unexpected Sunday jaunt is the start of one insignificant little cat's legacy.

- _the __end_ -


End file.
